


so far away

by archerhatesyou



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Present Tense, cause if you need insecurity and anxiety addled rationalization then, here tf i am, mutual pining probably, pining keith a little bit, pre-/post-a new defender, some Langst™ for good measure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 11:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13833036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archerhatesyou/pseuds/archerhatesyou
Summary: It feels too optimistic,when—butifis too pessimistic to say to Shiro’s face.





	so far away

**Author's Note:**

> i aLMOST FORGOT I HAD THIS BEFORE I MISSED MY CHANCE because i like writing speculative fics negated by the immediately following release check my record yall it’s bad

“Shiro, can I talk to you.”

When he glances up, his eyes don’t really focus on Lance. It sounds distracted, distant, when he asks, “Is it about Voltron?”

“Well . . . kinda.”

But what’s Shiro really supposed to do about it?

It’s hard not to notice that Shiro doesn’t like him very much. Lance figures he’s earned that. But who else is he supposed to go to? He already tried going to Keith, about . . . basically this same thing. That just left Lance even more conflicted, besides spurring a new problem. Lance knew he was part of the reason Keith ghosted them. Hunk and Pidge can’t do anything about this either, and Allura doesn’t owe him an ear.

But if it’s business related—then as the head of Voltron, _Shiro does_. Lance feels guilty for taking advantage of Shiro’s station when it’s clearly something he doesn’t want to deal with.

Lance thinks of a little green lion hologram, manifest in a weak, flickering form. Dissipating.

_Isn’t_ it business?

“Yeah,” he relents. “It is.”

In the long run, it’s for the good of the team.

* * *

They plop down on opposing arms of the horseshoe couch, upon confirmation that no one else is within several hundred yards of the room. Lance stares down into a cup—something Shiro handed him—he doesn’t even know what it is but it’s warm between his palms. He blows steam off the top.

“When. . . .”

It feels too optimistic, _when_ —but _if_ is too pessimistic to say to Shiro’s face. Lance would get a talking-to just for that. So he owns it. “When Keith comes back. . . .”

Shiro’s tongue clicks, an _I know what’s going on here_ sound. “It’s a little premature to be thinking about who’ll pilot what.”

Not only is it strange for Shiro not to be thinking in those terms—unless he’s telling Lance it’s not his place (in which case, couldn’t he just _say that_ )—but he’s also dead wrong. “Keith is better for the red lion. I might’ve been the only option when you were gone and he was in Black, but he’s a better right hand for you.”

“What makes you say that? You’ve progressed a great deal—”

“It’s just been really hard for me to focus. On Voltron. Without Keith, I just. . . . I mean I feel like we’re a team. Within a team I guess.”

“What about Allura?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, patting the air. “Allura’s great and all. She’s really good. Actually she’s _really_ good, for Voltron. I just. . . .”

What else is there to say?

Shiro sighs. “How about this. When he comes back, we’ll see what the lions want. Let them decide.” He probably thinks that’s a compromise, but Lance can feel his brows crumpling. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear—”

“But aren’t you worried? I mean remember before Pidge confessed, she was always thinking about how she was hiding that side of herself, and she couldn’t—”

“I understand your concern. That was early on. We were still new to each other then, and to Voltron. Jeez, we were new to the concept of aliens altogether. But we all know each other better now. We each still have bad days, and that’s okay. We’re here for each other.”

“You’re not listening to me. What I’m trying to say is that I _can’t_ be there for you guys because I’m way too distracted, I’m gonna make mistakes. I’m a liability, Shiro. I’m a weak link.”

“Are you looking for me to agree with you? That you’re weak?”

“If it’s what keeps my friends alive, then yeah, I am. The red lion is supposed to—”

“You’ve made mistakes before. I have too. So what I _will_ say is that it’s okay. And I know that because we all made it through.”

“Yeah, maybe when the stakes were lower. Our enemies are only getting stronger.”

“So are we, Lance. Every one of us is discovering new powers all the time. That includes you.”

“But Keith only left because I went to him moping and tried to step aside. He left so I wouldn’t worry about my position. That sucks, man.”

“Keith left for his own reasons. It’s not up to you to feel guilty for that.”

Lance shakes his head, sets the cup on the floor. He hasn’t had a single sip.

Something in Shiro’s brain visibly clicks. He tilts his head. “I didn’t hear about this. Why did you try to step aside before?”

“I wanted to make sure the best of the best were out there. That everybody had their rightful place.”

“Well . . . if you really believe he left to secure your place on the team—doesn’t that mean he wants the same thing for you? He’s been your leader too, you know—wouldn’t you trust him to know what’s best for his team? It might be worth something, to do as he says. Because it sounds to me like he cares about you too.”

They’re probably speaking in different terms. Well—Lance may or may not be speaking on two levels. It’s impossible to gauge Keith’s thought process when Lance himself isn't sure what exactly the hell he is talking about.

“Okay,” says Lance. He nods. “I understand. Thanks for letting me vent.”

He gets up to leave, hands balled into fists.

* * *

He knows Lance will be the one most angry at him. He doesn’t know why he knows, but he feels it.

Maybe it’s just that he can imagine everyone else’s response. First of all Kolivan would have eaten it up. Talk about brand ambassadorship. _The small one gave his life for the cause. What can you do?_

Pidge and Hunk would be sad but would ultimately decide it just hadn’t been their choice to make. Maybe they would be relieved they didn’t have to make it.

Shiro and Allura, while disappointed to lose a part of the team, would be able to identify with the thought process in self-sacrifice. They at times seem itching to do the same, especially Allura’s policy of brinkmanship when it comes to her own psychological stamina. And Shiro has been there. They’d get it.

But Lance . . . he’d probably take it pretty personally.

The debrief with the Marmora had helped Keith skirt those interactions; he has managed to avoid being alone with any one person. It’s gotten him safely to the showers without an audience as he has to face what just _almost_ happened.

Really he’d made it out unscathed. The post-battle rinse is usually more antiseptic, scrubbing grime from lesser gashes, water stinging in tiny scrapes—or with less luck, it’s an unsatisfying sponge bath so as not to upset more serious injuries.

Still, as he stands under the spray, physically he feels as bad as ever. Hypertension is like a huge hand squeezing his head, claws sunk into his temples and crushing the back of his skull, the pain bleeding all the way to his shoulders and halfway down his spine. He’d braced far too hard. He knows he’s supposed to relax going into a crash; the ache is so much worse when he tenses at impact.

But he didn’t expect to walk away from this one.

Now here he is, not a scratch on him and watching the water rinse off clear, and even without an impact his muscles feel too hot, knit too tight. He’ll be lucky if his body hasn’t petrified by morning.

He’s reluctant to leave the water’s comfort, but he’s been hearing someone banging on the door to the showers. Keith had locked it expecting no one to come by, but it’s too inconsiderate to stay knowing someone wanted in.

Except from outside he hears, “Keith.”

He knew it was coming, and still there’s the feeling of a boulder dropping through his stomach.

“Yeah,” Keith says.

Lance pauses just long enough for the boulder to turn over. “I need to talk to you.”

_Of course you do._ “Just . . . gimme a couple minutes, okay?”

An aching pause.

Then, flatly: “Yeah.”

So . . . is he just going to stand there and listen to him brush his teeth? There’s no more sound behind the door. 

Fine. That’s his own time he’s wasting. Keith dresses and moves to the sinks, letting his mind wander.

In the mirror he watches the water bead off his hair and wonders again what exactly makes him galra. If he looked _different_ he might not agonize over it the way he does. Is it just genes, something in his chemistry, a few antibodies or stray proteins here and there? Does he have extra organs the doctors never picked up on? Is it glands, hormones, senses? He wouldn’t even know if his sensory capabilities differed from everyone else. Maybe his ears are little sensitive, but nothing enough to blow away the guys at the hearing test. How far exactly _is_ he from the rest of them?

He tries to focus on the Blades—but how close is he, really, to the enemy?

He’s staring down at the running water. Habit feels so futile at times, as if play-acting at humanity. An absurd compulsion. Who the hell is this facade for? He chucks the toothbrush at the sink, squeezes fistfuls of his hair.

The sound of the water shutting off is too final, so he buys himself a few more seconds by filling a glass. Despite the dryness on his tongue he can only drink half of it, and even that feels like too much.

When Keith opens the door he shouldn’t be startled Lance is standing right there, those upturned brows and tired eyes and that worried frown. Or is it irritated? Sometimes it’s hard for Keith to tell the difference. It’s somewhere in the cheeks, depending on how high they are taut.

“Just a couple minutes,” he says again, and he’s edging into the hallway toward his quarters but Lance is standing there. He’s not in the way, he’s not blocking him. Just making his presence known. He’s _radiating_ presence, Keith can feel it pressing in on his chest, clouding his vision. Reflexively he puts a hand on a wall. Clutching his dirty clothes as a shield, Keith just keeps walking. _A couple more minutes._

“Keith.”

When he glances back, Lance is still standing in that same spot. Like a light switch that presence is extinguished and his expression is now blank, a labored erasure of what must be disappointment. He doesn’t say anything else.

Keith feels himself sigh. He angles his shoulders toward his door without fully turning back; he’s allowing Lance the space to walk past. Lance obliges, leading him to Keith’s quarters—judge, jury, executioner.

* * *

The door shuts behind them. Lance has only really been here once before, when he came to speak to him about _one paladin too many_. The energy is much the same as it was then, desperate and uncertain. But where they once faced each other head on, now Keith is allowed only the sight of Lance’s shoulders, low and stuttering.

“Hey. . . .” Keith reaches out for his arm and is shocked to see him flinch. Then he realizes Lance’s eyes are watering.

It’s so jarring it makes Keith a bit lightheaded; he doesn’t open his eyes for a few seconds, waiting for the stars in his eyelids to fade. Before he can fully focus again, Lance’s arms are around his shoulders.

And Keith just _melts_. He doesn’t _want_ it to be this way, so he tries not to move, but for some reason he doesn’t want to discourage Lance from caring about him either. The bare minimum response is to lift his arms around Lance’s waist, but they feel so heavy it’s hard not to cling to him, not to close his hand around a fistful of the shirt on Lance’s back. He tries, but his hand won’t open.

Lance says, “What was I supposed to do without you.”

It’s not a question, because it doesn’t have an answer. It’s an empirical truth, immutable, as Keith’s absence would have been out of Lance’s power to control.

Keith says, “You would’ve been fine.”

He can feel it in the shirt between his fingers that if the situation were reversed, Keith almost certainly would not be fine, and he can’t tell if it’s hypocrisy or disparity. Both hurt.

Lance pulls back, nose scrunched as he frowns against tears. His eyes are so narrow Keith wonders if he can even see. “Do you actually think that?”

His gut reaction is to say simply _Yeah_ but it feels like that wouldn’t reassure him and would probably make things worse. For all Keith’s silly habits, not one of them is self-sabotage. He feels safe with Lance so he doesn’t mind not lying.

So he shrugs. “I . . . don’t really know.”

“I wouldn’t.” Lance sniffs. “I wouldn’t be okay. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

“Yeah.” It comes out too fast for Keith to even know what the words are.

Lance rolls a shoulder, lowers it. Shakes his head, nods. He’s restless, an animal trying to cope with the absence of danger after its promise was revoked. Keith’s heart rises into his throat.

The bunk is the only thing of comfort in the room so there they are, and Keith would feel exposed were it anyone else but it’s Lance. They’re lying on their sides facing each other, forehead to forehead, and now that the soap scent has faded Keith smells something else. Clean, a little musky—that boy-smell, papery sweet. Every time he catches it there’s a flutter like his heart is cracking open and emptying into his chest. It feels like loss, like the scent that remains in clothes after someone is gone.

Keith realizes they’ve fallen asleep when eventually his alarm goes off. In his stupor he can’t even remember where his clock sits but Lance is rolling over to stop it—pulling a palm across Keith’s back as he turns to make sure he knows he’s there, and putting a hand in Keith’s hair and lightly squeezing just before he lets go. Lance is so _here_ that even this partial break, ankles still intertwined under a shared sheet, is cold, like the odd sucking feeling of a breach in armor where the space leaks in and it’s just _so cold_.

As the alarm stops, Keith can’t avoid vocalizing the cold, a soft reflexive yelp—the animal crying out.

_What was he supposed to do without me._

Then there’s a squeezing again, a hand combing through his hair, “Hey buddy,” a palm pushing across his back until there’s an arm around his shoulders once again.

Lance says, “I’m here.”


End file.
